DOUBLE WHAMMY
by Vanessa Sgroi
Summary: Chapter 9 the conclusion is now up.  Two men, two cases of food poisoning, and one toilet.  Uh oh.  Sick!Dean Sick!Sam Sicker!Dean and Angst.  Reviews are like ambrosia.  I love to hear what you think.
1. Sorry, Sugar

Disclaimer: Of course, all the standard disclaimers apply. I wouldn't be so lucky as to own the fantabulous Winchester boys.

**DOUBLE WHAMMY**

By: Vanessa Sgroi

Sam and Dean Winchester sat sprawled in a booth at the Krysla Cove Diner in Krysla Cove, Maryland. Both men were exhausted from wrestling with a confused and very stubborn eidolon that had refused, loudly and profusely, to be exorcised from a family's summer home. For once, neither of them had suffered much in the way of injuries except for bruises, scrapes, and scratches. It was pure exhaustion now that had the boys so drawn and miserable.

Dropping the menu on the table, Dean muttered, "I'm too tired to even think about this, I'm just gonna go with a good ol' cheeseburger and chocolate shake."

Sam unsuccessfully stifled a huge yawn behind a big hand and nodded. "I might as well have the same."

The waitress, a tall, buxom redhead whose nametag read "Helena" sauntered over a few minutes later. "What can I get for y'all?"

"We'll both have cheeseburgers, fries, and chocolate shakes."

"Sorry, we're out."

"You're out?"

"Well, we're outta cheeseburgers, I mean."

Dean sighed. "Okay, how about a couple of bowls of chili and two Cokes then."

"Sorry, sugar, outta chili too."

"Ah, c'mon! How the hell can that be?" Dean didn't mean to be so testy but hunger and weariness were a bad combination.

The waitress shot him an annoyed glare. "Hey, it was a busy day. Always is during the Krysla Cove Mustard Festival. We even had to hire a coupla extra cooks for the weekend. Besides we're comin' up on closing time."

Sure enough, when Dean looked at his watch, it was 8:25 p.m. and the sign on the door indicated the diner closed at 9:00 p.m. He dropped his head back against the wall.

Sam jumped into the conversation. "Sorry—Helena, is it? We're just a little tired. What can we get that's quick?"

"We make a pretty decent chicken salad sandwich. Comes with either our famous baked potato salad or chips, and a pickle."

Sam looked at his brother with a raised eyebrow. "Dean? How 'bout it?"

"Yeah, yeah—that's fine. I'll take the sandwich with potato salad. And a Coke."

Sam nodded. "I'll have the same except chips instead of the potato salad."

The waitress scribbled down their order, grabbed the menus off the table, and sashayed away. She returned minutes later and set their Cokes down in front of them, Dean's a little harder than Sam's, causing some to spill over the rim.

"I think she's a little mad at you," Sam said with a half smile.

Dean took a long drink of the icy liquid, draining half the glass. "Yeah, I see that. Didn't mean to piss 'er off," he murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

Things grew quiet, as Sam fiddled with the salt and pepper shakers. Rolling the glass shakers between his palms, he said, "At least we should be able to get a good sleep tonight. Job's done and we don't have to hightail it out of town for once."

Dean nodded but didn't say anything.

When Helena returned with their food, he looked at her and smiled a decidedly weary smile. "Hey . . . uh . . . Helena, look, I'm sorry about before. I'm just tired and cranky. I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

The redhead looked at him for a moment. Whether she saw the truth of his words about being tired or whether it was his soft-spoken, sincere apology he'd never know, but she offered him a sweet return smile.

"It's okay, sugar. Since you're tired AND hungry, you've a right to be a little outta sorts. Want a refill on your drink?"

When the elder Winchester nodded, she grabbed his glass and hurried away. A few moments later, she returned with the freshened drink and placed it in front of him, much more gently than the last time.

"Y'all enjoy now."

As she moved away, the brothers tucked into their food, nearly inhaling the much needed sustenance.

Dean downed his sandwich in record time. About half way through the potato salad, he surprisingly found himself full and dropped his fork. He pushed his plate away. Despite being full, he reached over and filched a potato chip off of Sam's plate. His brother glared at him, slapping his hand away when he reached a second time.

"Dean," he growled, "eat your own food!" Sam pointed at Dean's plate.

"Nah, I'm good," he drained the rest of his soda. "You ready?"

"Not yet," Sam mumbled around a chip.

Dean shifted in his seat and stifled a yawn. Pulling out his wallet, he tossed some cash on top of the check that was laying facedown near the edge of the table. After returning his wallet to his back pocket, he rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.

"You ready yet?"

Sam gulped the last of his Coke and gave a soft burp. "Yeah, yeah. Let's go."

The short drive to the Moonlight Madness Motel was made in silence, each brother lost in his own thoughts. Their small room, for once tidy, clean-smelling, and comfortable, looked like Heaven when they crossed the threshold.

Two steps into the room, Sam was already pulling off his long-sleeved striped shirt and the navy blue t-shirt underneath. "You gonna grab a shower?"

Dean plopped down on his bed. "Yeah, I think so." He bent over to pull off his boots and socks. When he straightened, he muttered, "No—nevermind. I'm beat. I'm just gonna hit the sack." He quickly stripped down to his black boxers and gray t-shirt.

Sam shrugged. He knew Dean would be more comfortable if he showered before going to sleep, but he wasn't going to argue with him. Sam discarded his own boots and socks and dropped his jeans to the floor. He grabbed a fresh pair of boxers from his duffel bag and strode into the bathroom. Twenty minutes later when he exited the bathroom, steam billowing out behind him, his brother was facedown on the bed and sound asleep.

Sam dived into his own bed and got comfortable, pulling the butter yellow top sheet just to his waist. A ceiling fan, a rare luxury not usually found at the motels in which they usually stayed, stirred a cool, refreshing breeze that ruffled Sam's damp hair. He sighed in contentment. Well, as close to contentment as he'd gotten in a long time. From the open window, the sound of crickets chirping in the warm summer night lulled him into sweet slumber.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

TBC . . .


	2. A Tale of Two Pukings

At first, Dean wasn't quite sure what awakened him from a sound sleep. Until, that is, the next cramp struck like a thunderbolt. He gasped and rolled to his back when another one hit on the tail end of the first.

Unfortunately, being on his back seemed to make it worse so he rolled onto his side, drawing his knees up toward his chest. He couldn't hold back a moan as the assault continued in rolling waves. A cold sweat broke out all over his body, and he began to pant as intense nausea bore down like cement. Dean jackknifed into a sitting position. He threw his legs over the side of the bed and hit the ground running. Slamming the bathroom door, he reached the toilet with a half second to spare, heaving the contents of his stomach into the porcelain receptacle with great force.

Sam was torn from sleep by the slamming of a door. Instantly alert, he laid still for a moment, straining to identify the threat. In those few frozen moments, he finally realized he was hearing the sound of his brother retching violently behind the closed bathroom door. Concern drew him to his feet, and he hurriedly moved to the door.

"Dean, you okay in there?"

The toilet flushed, and his brother ground out, "I'm good."

Sam rubbed a hand over his stomach, walked back to his bed, and sank down on top of the covers. He waited for the door to open so he could see just how "good" Dean really was. He didn't have long to wait. The bathroom door opened and Dean, his face tinged a remarkable shade of green, shuffled his way into the main room. All at once, Sam's determination to assess his brother flew out the window as his own stomach rebelled. He flew past his brother so fast that Dean almost staggered in the resultant wind.

Dean swiveled around to stare, but before he could retrace his steps, he was doubled over by clenching pain in his gut. He moved to his bed instead, desperate to lie down. The elder hunter was curled in a fetal position with his eyes tightly closed when Sam exited the bathroom. At the sound, his eyes popped open, and he tracked Sam's progress to his destination.

He watched Sam lower himself onto his bed. "Dude, you're green."

"Not as much as you. You're neon."

Considering how awful he felt, Dean figured his brother was likely telling the truth. He swallowed before saying, "You okay?"

"Been better." Sam mirrored Dean's position, clutching at his belly.

The room grew quiet as each brother concentrated on calming his ills, and they each drifted into a restless doze. Unfortunately, Dean's was short-lived as nausea again flooded his system, and he tore into the bathroom. His stomach, mostly empty from his earlier round, soon offered up nothing more than acrid, burning bile. And still the spasms wouldn't cease. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the rim of the toilet. When the heaving finally ended, his breath was all but gone, and Dean felt so weak he wasn't sure he could get off his knees. Trembling, he scooted around until his back rested against the tub. Goosebumps suddenly chased one another across his skin.

_Damn, I'm cold._

Before he knew it, his teeth were chattering. He jumped when, out of nowhere, there was a pounding at the door.

"Dean! Open the door! I need . . ." Sam's plea abruptly cut off. There was a heartbeat or two of silence, and then Dean heard Sam puking. Using the bathtub for support, he pulled himself up and stood on shaky legs. Sadly, the change in position aggravated his fractious belly, and he vomited—not into the toilet but into the tub. Grimacing, Dean reached out a trembling hand and turned on the water, rinsing away the evidence of his misery before making his way slowly out of the bathroom. He was greeted by the sight of Sam hunched over and heaving into a small trash can.

Crashing back into bed, Dean pulled the pillow down over his ears in an attempt to block out the sound of Sam being sick. It wasn't that he wasn't concerned about his brother—he was—but the sound itself, especially so close, was playing havoc with own system. Shivers wracked his body as his fever climbed.

When Sam was done, he pushed the trash can away and weaved back to the bed, dropping into a boneless heap.

"Oh God, Dean, this is _**not**_ good," he groaned.

Dean merely grunted.

From that point on, time ceased to have much meaning for the brothers. Beyond dueling trips to the bathroom (the loser relegated to using the trash can), neither man had the energy to do anything other than lay perfectly still.

When Dean, bent over and lurching like an old man, exited the bathroom for what seemed like the millionth time, he found Sam sitting on the edge of his bed.

Sam eyeballed him up and down, "You have anything left to throw up?"

"I've long since left behind mere puking, Sam."

"Oh? Oh--God! Um . . . okay," muttered Sam, scrubbing a hand over his face, "we really need to drink some water or something, Dean. See if we can hold it down."

"I will if you will."

With a Herculean effort, Sam managed to get to the kitchenette and fill two glasses each half full with water. Inching back to the beds, he handed one to Dean, who greedily downed the tepid liquid.

Despite the fact that it tasted like ambrosia and soothed his raw throat, Dean knew immediately that gulping the water was a mistake, as it landed in his stomach like hot knife. Seconds later it burned its way back up his esophagus, and with no time to make a run for it, he vomited all over the carpet. Once the water was expelled, Dean continued to dry heave. The spasms were so hard and continuous that he was unable to take a breath in between. His face went from pale to bright red and tears leaked from his eyes.

Sam, who'd been sipping his own water, felt his stomach cramp and protest what he'd ingested. He swallowed hard against his the urge to vomit. He heard Dean heaving and watched his brother's struggle in horror and knew what he had to do.

He quickly grabbed his cell phone off the nightstand and dialed.

"_911, what is your emergency?" _

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

TBC . . .


	3. The Right Decision

"Ahhh, Sammy, why'd ya do that?" Dean whispered brokenly when he could breathe again. His mouth was so dry his tongue felt like it was sticking to the roof of his mouth.

"Because you're sick, Dean. Really sick," Sam replied as he watched his brother attempt to sit on the edge of his bed and fail, slumping to the floor instead. "And I'm too sick to help you."

Sam's legs were so shaky that he wasn't sure they'd hold him much longer. While he was able, he maneuvered to the motel room door and unlocked it. Then his meager surge of strength gave out, and he sank to the floor, resting his back against the wall for support. Sam kept an eye on Dean, who hadn't moved—who hadn't even tried to get back up on the bed—and knew he'd made the right decision.

He wasn't sure how long he'd sat there by the door, when he finally heard a siren draw close and then cut off. It was followed by brisk knocking at the door and a deep voice calling out an authoritarian, "Krysla Cove Paramedics!" Sam extended an arm and twisted the door knob, opening it a crack.

The two paramedics entered the room on guard, not sure exactly what to expect. The first one through the door immediately squatted down in front of Sam, while his partner rushed over to Dean.

"My name is John. What's yours?"

"Sam. Sam Win . . . ston."

"Okay, Sam, can you tell me what's going on?" the tall, dark-haired paramedic put a latex-gloved hand on Sam's shoulder.

The young hunter wearily dropped his head back against the wall. Now that help had arrived, whatever adrenalin or determination that had kept him going was rapidly draining away.

"Sick. We're sick. Throwing up. And other . . . stuff."

"Other stuff meaning like diarrhea?"

Sam nodded a bit reluctantly. "My brother more than me though. He's really, really sick. Can you please help him?"

"My partner's taking care of him—don't worry. Have either of you been able to keep down any fluids?"

Sam shook his head.

"Fever?"

"Don't know. Feels like it," he murmured.

"Anything else?" John asked.

"Stomach cramps. Really bad cramps." As if on cue, Sam heard his brother groan and looked over to see him dry heaving again.

The paramedic nodded. "Okay, lemme just do a quick exam and we'll get you guys outta here."

The paramedic examining Dean called out, "John, he's real hot. Temp's 103.1. We better get a move on."

"Got it," John quickly took Sam's temperature, which registered 101.2 degrees.

"Listen, Sam, we're gonna grab the stretcher for your brother. Do you think you can walk to the ambulance?"

"Yeah, yeah—anything—just take care of Dean."

The paramedics left the room briefly and returned with the stretcher, which they rolled next to Dean.

"Okay, Dean, we're gonna move you onto the stretcher now."

The elder Winchester wanted to argue, wanted to protest, but he was so miserable that he couldn't summon the energy, or the spit for that matter, to do either. God, he hated feeling helpless.

The medics moved into position at Dean's head and feet. John said, "On three. One. Two. Three." Working as one, they lifted Dean and placed him on his side on the stretcher. He gasped as the move set the room to spinning in circles. His knuckles whitened on the thin mattress.

With help from John's partner, Sam managed to push himself upright and walk to the stretcher. Uncaring that his brother might be horrified by the gesture, Sam reached over and squeezed Dean's hand in support—and, yes, damn it—in comfort. He was shocked when Dean gave a squeeze back.

For Dean, the ambulance ride was pure torture. Every bump they hit sent his stomach into his throat. Every turn made his head spin like a merry-go-round—an evil merry-go-round, populated with demons and spirits, with the odd Wendigo thrown in for variety.

When the ambulance finally came to a stop in the emergency room bay, Dean almost—almost—wept with relief. He was ashamed to admit that the only reason he didn't was because he was still far too dehydrated to produce tears.

TBC . . .


	4. D Monnick, RN

Sam lazily watched the drip, drip, drip of IV fluid as it left the bag and wound its way through the cannula and eventually into his arm. The IV itself was a hard won victory, as the paramedics had had a tough time finding a viable vein in their severely dehydrated patients.

They'd arrived at the hospital some time ago, finding the emergency room surprisingly busy. Because it was so busy, they'd both been placed, with their permission, in the same exam cubicle and were now waiting to be seen. With the introduction of some fluid into his parched body, Sam was feeling marginally better, though the cramping and nausea persisted.

Turning his eyes away from the mesmerizing drip his tired mind found so soothing, Sam looked at his brother. He'd hoped the IV running into Dean's arm would result in similar improvement, but so far it didn't seem to be helping him as much.

"Dean?"

"Hmmm?" Dean murmured without opening his eyes. Thanks to the IV, his face was starting to glisten with sweat.

"How ya doin', man?"

He saw his brother frown, a deep furrow carved between his eyebrows.

"Umm . . . not sure."

Before Sam could say anything else, the cubicle curtain was shoved aside and a short young man, likely a resident, in green scrubs sauntered into the room carrying their patient questionnaires on two metal clipboards. The scrub-clad man wrinkled his nose at the stale sick smell emanating off both patients.

To Sam, it looked like he stopped just short of waving a hand in front of his face like a fan and he bristled.

"I'm Dr. Sheridan," the short man announced, without really looking at either Winchester. He sidled closer to Dean's exam table and spared a quick glance at the man before scribbling something on the clipboard. Swiveling toward Sam, he repeated his actions. Then, without further ado, he scurried toward the curtain, throwing over his shoulder, "Looks like you both have simple food poisoning. I'll send a nurse in with a cooling blanket for him." On the last word, Dr. Sheridan cocked his head in Dean's direction and disappeared from view.

Stunned at the doctor's callous treatment and nonexistent bedside manner, Sam growled, "Jerk." He was surprised to hear Dean offer a small—very small—chuckle. It was followed by a groan as his brother's abused, overworked stomach muscles protested the sudden movement.

It was several minutes later when the curtain was again whisked aside. A gargantuan woman, easily six feet tall and 300 lbs. if she was an ounce, strode purposefully into the cubicle. Powder blue eye shadow decorated her lids from lash to brow and red lipstick plumped her full lips. She yanked the curtain closed behind her.

In her gaily-patterned pink scrubs, she reminded Sam a little too much of a clown, and he swallowed convulsively against the irrational, but well-established, fear. He did, however, unconsciously pull the white sheet up toward his chin.

"All right, gentlemen, I need you both to roll over for me." The woman held up the two items she carried in her left hand that looked suspiciously like small turkey basters.

At her words, Dean's eyes popped open.

"What?" both boys squeaked in unison.

She looked from one to the other and replied, "I need you both to roll over. We need a stool sample from each of you."

"No! No freakin' way, lady!" Dean growled, though its usual menace was unmistakably missing.

Sam said nothing and pulled the sheet a little higher. His nausea increased with a sudden, and unwelcome, intensity.

"Now, listen here, boys—we suspect you're suffering from food poisoning, and we've a few other suspected cases occupying space in this emergency room. So—we need to isolate the cause and see what we're dealin' with."

She pulled the privacy curtain closed between the two exam tables and marched to Dean's bedside. "C'mon, hun, it won't hurt you know. In and out. I'm an old hand at this after all these years."

Dean glared at her name badge, opening his mouth to crack a Nurse Rachet joke.

_D. Monnick, R.N._

His vision was a little blurry so he squinted at the badge, sure he hadn't read it correctly.

_D. Monnick, R.N._

"You've gotta be kiddin'. What's the 'D' stand for? Devil?" he mumbled.

From the other side of the curtain, Sam called out, "Dean! Seriously—now is _**not**_ the time!"

Seeing that he was eyeing her badge, she laughed. "Ah, hun, you hurt my feelings. Actually, it stands for Delilah. You know, Delilah, the temptress."

A shiver wracked Dean's body.

"Now—roll on over. I'm not gonna take no for an answer an' I'm bigger than you." Delilah smiled, but it did nothing to take the threat out of her words.

Dean glared at his torturer but did as she ordered. He was surprised at the effort it took for him roll on his side. He lay panting and dizzy, and in dejected gloom, as she took her sample. When she was finished, he shifted onto his back and glared at her some more.

_Huh? Why're there two of her?_

She pulled off the latex gloves and dropped them in the red biohazard trash can. "Glare all you want, hun. But just think, your brother's next. And when I'm done with him, I'll bring you back a cooling blanket."

Though he was still embarrassed and miserable, he couldn't help the tiniest of smirks at thought of his brother experiencing the same humiliation.

_Misery loves company as they say._

TBC . . .


	5. I Can't Breathe

A few minutes later, Nurse Monnick pulled back the privacy curtain and left the cubicle, promising to return momentarily.

Sam, his face tinged pink with embarrassment said, "Well, that was about as fun as hitting myself in the head with a hammer."

When his brother failed to make a sarcastic comeback, Sam raised his eyes and looked at him. He was surprised to see Dean staring at him with a rather puzzled expression on his face. He was rubbing a hand over his chest.

"Dean, you okay?"

The elder Winchester squinted hard, trying to bring Sam into focus.

_Sammy, why're there two of you? And when did it get so hard to breathe?_

"Dean?"

"S-S-S-Sammm," he slurred, "S-S-S-Somthins wr-r-rong—" Suddenly Dean couldn't catch his breath, and he began to gasp for air.

"Oh, God! Dean!" Sam threw his legs over the side of the gurney and tried to stand. The room spun crazily and he sank back down, gripping the gurney tightly to keep from falling flat on his face.

"Help! We need help in here!" he yelled.

A few seconds passed and the cubicle curtain remained closed. Dean continued to gasp, his head thrown back and neck muscles distended as he tried to pull in air.

Sam panicked. "God damn it, somebody get in here!" he screamed again, "we need help!"

Finally his frantic call was answered, as a random nurse nonchalantly wandered in. "Sir, what's the . . ." She immediately saw what was happening and called for a team.

A young Asian female hurried in, followed by several others, including Delilah Monnick. The doctor began snapping out orders, the first being a call for a laryngoscope in order to intubate.

Sam watched in shock and dismay as a tube was swiftly inserted down his brother's throat. A mask was quickly attached to the tube and someone started bagging Dean, forcing air into his lungs.

After ventilation was initiated, the doctor placed a stethoscope in various positions on Dean's chest and listened. "Good breath sounds bilaterally. Let's get him up to ICU and get monitors on. X-ray to confirm tube placement."

The caregivers had just started to roll the gurney forward when the guy squeezing the ambu-bag exclaimed, "Shit! He's fighting the tube!"

_I can't breathe! God, get away from me. Stop, please stop. I can't breathe!_

Sam could see his brother weakly tossing his head from side to side, fighting the uncomfortable intrusion.

"Dean," he commanded urgently, "Dean, it's okay. Don't fight it."

Sam's voice seemed to sooth Dean's agitation, and he eventually went still.

The team again began to wheel the gurney out of the cubicle. Nurse Monnick was the last in line to follow them out.

Sam stood and, ignoring his shakiness, grabbed his IV pole, determined to follow them to wherever they were taking his brother.

"Mr. Winston," ordered Delilah without even turning around, "I suggest you climb back on that bed."

"But Dean . . ."

"Is in good hands," the nurse paused and turned her head toward Sam, "Dr. Su is one of the best." Seeing the agony of worry on Sam's face, she walked over to him and helped him back up on his own gurney. Once she had him settled, she actually brushed his bangs off his forehead and felt him relax slightly at her touch. "Listen, as soon as I know anything, I promise to come and tell you. I'm sure Dr. Su will talk to you too. You need to stay right here until we can get you settled in a room for the night."

Sam wanted to argue, but his stomach chose that moment to remind him that his own illness was still very much a concern. Delilah was able to grab an emesis basin and shove it under his chin just in time to catch the small amount of bile he expelled.

She left him for a second, returning with a small cup filled with water.

"Here—rinse but don't swallow."

Sam did as she instructed. "Thanks," he murmured.

Pushing his unruly bangs back once more, she said, "Now you try to rest. I promise to let you know something when I know something."

She turned and walked out of the cubicle, leaving Sam with his worry and apprehension joining forces with his nausea to form a miserable rock in his belly.

TBC . . .


	6. On the Move, Sort Of

**I want to say a big thank you to all who recently reviewed. I apologize that I haven't been able to respond to the individual comments. I've been busy cleaning and getting the house ready for my mother who's coming up today (from Ohio) to visit and babysit my two dogs when I take off next week to go to KazCon. (God Bless her, 75-years-old and still willing to do me this big favor!) Anyway, thank to everyone for being so enthusiastic about this story. I cannot tell you how much that has meant to me!!**

**Hugs,**

**Vanessa**

* * *

Sam tried to obey Nurse Monnick's order to rest—he really did. But worry and restlessness drove him to the edge. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but to him it had been too long—too long without hearing a word about his brother's condition. Sam couldn't stand it another second. He had to find Dean.

Determination hardened the planes of his face and he stood, taking a deep breath and steadying himself. With a grimace he pulled the IV needle from his arm, ignoring the blood that welled from the puncture and ran down his arm. The viscous fluid slowly dripped off his fingers and hit the floor.

Walking to the curtain, Sam pushed it aside slightly and peeked around the edge. The rest of the cubicles along the corridor were apparently occupied, but their curtains were closed. At that moment, no one was in the corridor itself, so Sam slipped out. Not sure which direction to turn, he chose left and started inching his way forward.

At the end of the short hall was a circular desk area where doctors, nurses, and various other personnel were congregated. They all appeared absorbed in their duties, and he hoped to move past them without attracting attention. Sam decided to go left again and headed through the open space curving around the desk. Spying a bank of elevators up ahead, he figured that was a good place to find a wall directory, which might give him a clue as to where the ICU might be. Thinking he was home free, Sam picked up his pace which, under the circumstances, didn't amount to much.

"MR. WINSTON!" the now-familiar voice of Delilah Monnick cracked like a whip, "Just where do you think you're going?"

Sam flinched and froze, hunching his shoulders up around his ears.

The nurse stepped up behind him. "I see you don't follow orders very well." She eyed the trail of intermittent blood drops along Sam's path. "Mm-mm-mm, Housekeeping's not gonna be happy with you."

Sam looked at his bloody fingers.

_Damn, shoulda thought of that._

"I'm sorry," he muttered, "I just couldn't . . . I had to find . . ."

Delilah took him by the shoulders and gently pushed him up against the wall. "You. Stay."

She hurried away and was back in a flash, pushing a wheelchair. "Sit."

Sam sank into the chair without a sound. The nurse placed a piece of gauze over his IV site which was still oozing blood and slapped a Band-Aid over it to hold it in place. That done, the nurse moved behind the wheelchair and started to push him toward the elevators instead of back toward the abandoned cubicle.

"Where're we going?"

"To your room. But first we have a little stop to make."

The stop she spoke of was the medical ICU. As she wheeled him toward Dean's room, she said, "He's in stable condition, so keep that in mind when you see him. He's still on the vent though, just so you know."

Arriving at their destination, Delilah opened the door and pushed Sam into the room, right up to his brother's bedside. The room was alive with the whoosh-whoosh of the machine breathing for his brother and the beeping of the various monitors attached to Dean.

Sam stared at him feeling absolutely helpless. "Shit, Dean, what the hell is going on with you?" He leaned forward and rested his fingers on his brother's arm.

"I can only give you five minutes, hun," whispered the nurse before she disappeared, leaving the brothers alone.

"C'mon, Dean, you can beat this—whatever the hell it is." Not knowing what else to say, Sam sat quietly, hoping his simple touch would somehow give Dean more strength to fight.

The five minutes passed quickly and Nurse Monnick was back before he knew it.

"Are you sure I can't stay longer?"

"I'm positive. I'd tell you not to worry about him, but I can see that won't do me any good. For now though, let's get you to your room."

Sam's room turned out to be two floors down from Dean's. There were two beds in the room, but he was glad to see the other bed was currently empty.

"Let's get you settled." She pulled back the bed covers. Delilah helped him out of the wheelchair and up onto the bed. After adjusting the covers over him, she asked, "Do you think you can keep down some juice if I bring some? Or do I need to get another IV goin'?"

"No, no. I'll try the juice."

"All right. Now, Dr. Su is going to come in and talk to you soon, I think. In the meantime, you stay right there in that bed," the nurse adopted a fierce look that would have been terrifying had it not been for the twinkle in her eyes, "We have restraints, you know, and I know how to use 'em."

Sam raised his hands in surrender. "I'm staying, I'm staying."

"Good. I'll be back with your juice."

TBC . . .


	7. Asleep and Awake

The younger Winchester lay still on his hospital bed, valiantly attempting to settle his mind and his stomach. Since he'd been able to see Dean, his worry had quieted to a dull roar rather than the 5-alarm klaxon it had been. His own body's bout with myriad ailments was starting to catch up with him, as exhaustion tugged at his senses and scrambled his thoughts. With a sigh, he let his eyes droop to half mast.

He was floating on the edge of sleep when he heard the door open. Expecting Nurse Monnick with his juice, he was surprised to see the young Asian doctor stroll through the door.

"Mr. Winston, I'm Dr. Su, the doctor who's taking care of your brother. I just need to ask you a few questions."

"Yes, of course."

"Can you tell me the last thing you and your brother ate?"

"Yeah, we both had chicken salad sandwiches."

Dr. Su nodded. "Anything else?"

"Um, yeah, I had potato chips. Dean had some potato salad, though I don't think he ate it all. Oh, and we both had pickles . . . and Cokes."

Dr. Su again nodded her fingers steepled under her chin. "And prior to that meal?"

"Uh . . . I dunno—I think we had donuts and coffee or something."

"And that last meal was where?"

"At that diner outside of town."

"The Krysla Cove Diner?"

"Yeah, I guess that was the name of it."

The door to the room swished open, admitting Delilah Monnick returning with his juice.

"Oh, Dr. Su, I didn't realize you were here. I can come back."

"No, that's okay, Delilah. We're finished. Thank you, Mr. Winston, for answering my questions."

"Wait!" exclaimed Sam, "Do you know what's wrong with my brother?"

Dr. Su placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, giving it a little squeeze.

"Not yet. But you've given me some valuable clues. You get some rest. You've had quite an ordeal too."

Once the doctor left the room, the nurse approached the bed and handed Sam a small container of apple juice. "Sip a little of this, and we'll see how you do."

Sam pulled the foil cover off the container and tossed it on the nearby wheeled bed tray. He raised the cold, sweaty cup to his lips and tentatively took a drink. To him, it was the sweetest, most wonderful liquid he'd ever tasted. Sam had to stop himself from tossing back the remainder in one gulp. Under Delilah's watchful eye, he sipped slowly until it was all gone. When he was done, Sam waited to see if anything untoward was going to happen. After a minute, though his stomach gurgled a bit in protest, the juice stayed down, and Sam felt like doing a happy dance. Well, sort of. He settled for a big, dimpled grin directed at the nurse.

"Very good. Keep that up," Delilah said as she placed another container of juice down on the tray table, "and you'll be outta here in the morning."

A stray thought suddenly occurred to the young man. "What day is it anyway?"

"It's Wednesday evening."

"Wednesday evening! We ate at the diner late Sunday. That means . . . that means we lost three days!"

"It doesn't surprise me. You were both very sick boys when you arrived."

Sam was silent as he contemplated the truth of Nurse Monnick's words.

"Now—it's time for _you_ to get some sleep."

Sam could feel sleep dragging at his eyelids and realized she was absolutely right. His thoughts were becoming too muddled as everything that had happened in the last three days caught up with him. Even the lure of the other cold juice wasn't enough to hold sleep at bay and his eyes drifted shut. He didn't even feel Delilah squeeze his hand in support before she dimmed the lights and left the room.

Hours later, Sam was shaken awake by a gentle hand.

"Mr. Winston . . . Sam . . . wake up," Nurse Monnick half whispered.

"Huh? Wha?" he mumbled.

"We need your help. It's your brother."

At those words, all sleepiness deserted Sam in a heartbeat.

"Shit! I shoulda stayed with him. What's wrong? What's wrong with Dean?"

"He's very agitated, and they can't seem to get him calmed down. I told them to let me bring you up—that your presence would help."

Throwing the covers back, Sam was ready to go in an instant.

"Here—here's a wheelchair. Let's go."

The midnight trip to the medical ICU was quick and quiet. When the nurse rolled Sam into Dean's room, he saw immediately that Dean was indeed very worked up. Beads of sweat stood out on his pale face. His eyes were restlessly moving around the room, and he was instinctively biting against the tube. Each time he did so, a monitor would wail incessantly until an irritated-looking nurse would march over and re-set it.

Delilah wheeled Sam right up to the bed and stepped away, moving quietly into a corner.

Sam bent forward and grabbed a hold of his brother's arm. "Dean! It's Sam."

When Dean again bit down on the tube, causing the alarm to sound, Sam waited for the ICU nurse to re-set it before saying, "Jesus, Dean, you need to calm down. C'mon, man. The nurses are starting to look like they want to toss you out the window."

Sam waited for a few seconds to see if his words were sinking in.

"I'm here, Dean. C'mon. It's okay. Look at me."

Dean's eyes rolled a few more times in panic before finally settling on Sam. He blinked slowly. An involuntary tear trailed from the corner of his eye and mixed with the sweat on his face.

"That's it. I'm right here." Sam felt the prick of guilt that he hadn't insisted on staying by his brother's side even if it went against regulations.

"It's okay. I'll stay right here."

Seeing and hearing his brother had the desired effect, and Dean calmed, his monitors slowly showing a return to more normal levels.

Sam kept his hand on Dean's arm and watched his brother's eyelids droop. Profound relief coursed through Sam. He laid his head down on the bed, his arm a pillow, and then he too slowly started to drift off to sleep.

When the ICU nurse dared approach to move him away, Delilah spoke up from her position in the corner. "Leave him be," she suggested, "I think he'd doing his brother more good like that than anything we've been able to do."

TBC . . .


	8. All Is Revealed

I'm not a medical professional so all medical errors are mine alone.

* * *

A flurry of renewed activity around Dean's bed a few hours later brought Sam to awareness. He lifted his head off his arm, wincing as his stiff neck protested. His arm, asleep after so many hours pillowing his head, tingled ferociously when he moved it.

"What? What's going on?" Sam asked the medical personnel hovering over his brother. They ignored him.

Sam stood and anxiously repeated his question, which was again met with silence. Frustrated, he had just about decided to leave the room and search out Delilah Monnick when Dr. Su entered the room.

"Dr. Su, what—"

The doctor held up her index finger indicating that he wait a minute and walked to Dean's bedside. After conferring with one of the other caregivers for a few minutes, she moved to Sam's side.

"Let's talk outside for a minute." She took his elbow and guided him from the room. Once in the hallway, Dr. Su led him over to a small waiting area, which was empty at this time of the night.

"Well, we now know exactly what's going on with your brother," she said.

"What? What is it?"

"First, the two of you were made sick by bacteria called Shigella. Basically, you both came down with dysentery. We've traced it back to that chicken salad you ate at the diner. We have, in fact, had several other cases come through the emergency room in the last day or so."

"I don't understand. Why did Dean get so much sicker than me?"

"Amazingly, your brother was unlucky enough to be poisoned with a second organism—_Clostridium botulinum._ This is the bacteria that causes a build up of toxins that causes botulism."

"Botulism! But doesn't that usually happen with canned stuff?"

"Yes, typically, home canned goods. We've had a rare occurrence here. In this instance, it was caused by improperly handled baked potatoes that were baked in tin foil. Those potatoes were used to make that potato salad your brother ate."

Sam dropped his head into his hands, threading his fingers through his shaggy hair.

"How is it treated?"

"We administer an anti-toxin. We're testing now to see if he's sensitive to it. If he's not, we'll administer a full dose."

"And then?"

"It will take several days or even weeks, but he should make a full recovery. He's young and strong which works in his favor. Despite the difficulty breathing, for whatever reason, the paralysis didn't advance all the way down his body as it often does. In fact, your brother was actually lucky."

"Lucky? How can you even say that?" Sam scoffed.

"I say that because he happened to have the secondary Shigella food poisoning. With all the throwing up and diarrhea he experienced, he evacuated much of the contaminated food on his own and much earlier than we would have been able to. Normally we would likely induce vomiting and use enemas to rid the body of as much of the toxin as we can. So in a sense, the dysentery may have actually saved his life. Plus he didn't eat all of his potato salad which helped. Others weren't as lucky."

"Others?"

"We've had two other cases come in tonight. Two other people who ate that contaminated potato salad. One was an elderly gentlemen—he didn't make it," the doctor muttered softly. "The other—a middle-aged woman—is also on a respirator, but in much worse condition than your brother."

Their conversation was interrupted by guy Sam had seen Dr. Su talking to a little while ago.

"Doc, we register no acute sensitivity."

"Good. Let's get a full dose of anti-toxin on board then."

The guy nodded and hurried away.

"So what now?" Sam asked.

"We get that anti-toxin into him—let it do its job. We'll keep him on the vent for another day or two and then see if we can wean him off. After that, he may struggle for awhile with fatigue and weakness. Because we caught it early he should, however, eventually make a complete recovery."

Sam rubbed his fisted hands into his eyes. "You don't know my brother; he doesn't know the meaning of 'eventually'."

"Well, as I said, he's young, strong, and till now—very healthy. That will likely make a huge difference."

"Can I stay with him?"

"Yes, of course. Barring any complications, you'll be released later this morning. But I'm sure we can arrange something."

"Thank you, Dr. Su." Sam shook the doctor's hand.

"You're welcome. Now, how about you get back in there with that brother of yours."

Sam didn't need to be told twice.

TBC . . .


	9. Clean Dean?

Sam waited impatiently outside Dean's ICU room, pacing in the hallway but never moving more than five steps away from the door. After two more days on the ventilator, Dr. Su and the respiratory therapists were with Dean now and were optimistic that today would be the day it could be removed, and Dean would breathe on his own.

Over these last two days, Dr. Su had repeatedly assured Sam that the anti-toxin had done its job and his brother was making a remarkable recovery. Considering the serious nature of botulism, Dr. Su was ecstatic at his progress. Despite her continued reassurances, however, Sam wouldn't be happy until he saw it for himself.

_What the hell's taking so long?_

Sam pivoted and retraced his five steps, nervously chewing on his thumbnail.

"I figured I'd find you out here worrying."

He spun around at the sound of Delilah Monnick's voice.

"Here, hun, I brought you this," she handed him a cup of steaming coffee, "it's decaf, but I thought you might need it anyway."

Taking the cup, Sam murmured a "thank you" and took a sip, grimacing slightly at its bitter tang.

The nurse eyed him up and down, noting his pallor and general weariness. "I bet you haven't gotten much in the way of rest, have you?"

"Sure, after I was discharged, I went back to our motel room for awhile."

Seeing straight through his bluff, she answered, "Where you brooded about your brother. Just as you've done every moment you've been planted here at his bedside."

Though the situation didn't warrant it, Sam oddly felt like a child caught with his hand in a cookie jar. He shifted from foot to foot. "He . . . uh . . . he's all I got left."

"Sam, my boy, I know that. Sensed it from the very beginning. There's just something about the two of you. But you still need to take care of yourself."

The younger Winchester felt himself blush a little under her scrutiny and ran a hand through his unwashed shaggy brown hair and over the stubble on his cheeks and chin.

"Okay—enough with the lecturing. I know you'll do what you need to do. Now, listen, I want you to take this," Delilah handed him a piece of paper with her name and number printed on it in precise black lettering. "You keep that. And if you and you brother ever need me for anything—and I do mean anything—call. You'd be very surprised at how resourceful I can be."

Sam stared at the paper a second before shoving it in his pocket. Just then the door to Dean's room opened drawing Sam's attention. He watched as the respiratory therapists left the room, followed by Dr. Su. The doctor's eyes automatically roamed the hall, and when she spied him, she smiled.

He hurried toward her.

"Well?" he queried, his eyes fill of hope.

"You're brother is a remarkable man. He's breathing on his own. Not only that, he's already chomping at the bit to get out of that bed. I had to practically threaten him to keep him where he's at."

Sam gusted out a huge sigh of relief and broke into a heartfelt grin, revealing the cavernous dimples on each side of his mouth.

"That sounds just like him. Can I go in?" he asked, pointing at the door.

"Yes, of course. We'll be moving him to a regular room shortly, I think."

"How much longer will he need to be in the hospital?"

Dr. Su cocked her head to the side and tapped a finger on her chin. "At the rate he's recovering, I'd say he'll be out of here in a couple more days. Barring any unforeseen issues, of course."

Sam nodded before turning and pushing his way into Dean's room. Grabbing his customary chair from the corner, he approached the bed quietly, studying his brother as he went.

"It's rude to stare, you know," rasped Dean without opening his eyes.

The younger man jumped at the sound of Dean's gravelly whisper. "How'd you know I was staring?"

"Sammy," croaked Dean, "I could feel those eyes burning a hole in me the second you walked into the room." As he spoke, he rolled his head toward Sam and opened bleary eyes.

Dropping into the chair, Sam asked, "How ya feeling?" The words were inadequate and silly but it was the best he could do.

Dean swallowed and frowned. "Tired. Throat hurts like a sonuvabitch."

"That's from the tube."

"Yeah, yeah—I know."

"Want some water?"

Dean nodded.

Sam poured a little water into a blue plastic cup, added a straw, and held it out for Dean to drink, steadying the straw between two fingers.

After a few sips, the older Winchester turned his head and coughed a little to clear his throat. "So tell me, when do I get rid of this?" he carefully wiggled his arm sporting the IV, then he suddenly flinched and peeked under the covers. "More importantly, when do I get rid of THAT?"

Sam shrugged. "Uh . . . I dunno."

"Well, it better be damn soon," muttered Dean, "or I'll rip it out myself."

It was Sam's turn to flinch. He resisted the instinctual urge to cross his legs at the painful image Dean's words evoked. He was grateful Dean's next words nudged the image from his mind.

"What the hell happened anyway?"

"We both got food poisoning, remember?"

"Hell, yeah, I remember puking my guts out. What happened after we got here?" Dean waved his hand around referring to the hospital as a whole.

Leaning forward, Sam said, "We both got food poisoning from that chicken salad we ate. But you . . . well, you got botulism from the potato salad."

"You gotta be freakin' kidding me! Who gets botulism anymore?"

"The doctor said something about potatoes, tin foil, and improper handling. I dunno. I was more worried about how sick you were. But you were lucky."

Dean eyed his brother. "Lucky? Doesn't feel like it."

"Four other people got it, Dean. Two of them died."

He stared at his little brother with dismay, a chill racing down his back.

The brothers sat quietly for a few minutes until Sam noticed Dean's eyelids beginning to drift closed.

"Hey, the doctor said they'd be moving you to a regular room soon. I'm gonna go catch some sleep, grab a shower, and come back later, okay?"

"Might wanna eat something too," mumbled Dean, "you look like a damn skeleton. A Sasquatch skeleton."

Sam rolled his eyes and thought about making a smart ass comeback but realized Dean was already asleep. Staring at his brother, Sam mouthed a quick prayer of thanks before turning and leaving the room, yawning on his way out the door.

It was evening before Sam returned to the hospital. He'd slept the afternoon away before showering and picking up a bite to eat—chicken soup and a cheddar roll—at a little café a few blocks away from the hospital. He had to admit he felt better now that he was clean, rested, and had a full stomach. At the main information desk, Sam asked if his brother was now in a regular room. Upon being told that he had indeed been moved, Sam asked for directions and quickly headed for that floor.

Finding Room 3-307K, he paused for just a second before pushing the door open and walking into the room. He found Dean awake and staring disinterestedly at the wall-mounted TV. At his entrance, his brother looked over and half smiled.

" 'Bout time you got your ass back here, geek boy. TV sucks around here. All I seem to get is PBS." That last part wasn't quite true, but Dean refused to admit that at the moment he preferred Sam's company over anything found on television.

Sam eased down on the edge of the other, unoccupied, bed. "I see they haven't gotten rid of your IV yet. Did they get rid of—"

Dean scowled. "Don't even go there. All they did was laugh at me when I told 'em I wanted it gone or I'd take it out myself. I swear one of them even snorted!"

Biting back a grin, Sam let his brother grumble for a few seconds.

"They're not doing it just to torture you, you know."

Dean rolled his eyes.

Finally, they drifted into a conversation about what might need to be restocked in their arsenal since their last hunt. Five minutes into the conversation, the door to Dean's room blasted open and in unison the brothers looked over, hunters' instincts still in place. A formidable looking woman in gray forged into the room, a deep scowl firmly in place on her pinched face. Dean's first thought was _look up the term battle ax in the dictionary and you'd find a picture of this woman._

She marched between the two beds. She pointed a long, crooked finger at Dean. "You, Mr. Stunning. I'll be back in five minutes to give _you_ a sponge bath." Then she pointed that same finger at Sam and ordered, "You. Out. If you're here when I get back, I just might figure out a way to give you one too." Spinning on her sensible orthopedic shoe heel, she started to walk away. "Oh, and don't even think about making a run for it," she called over her shoulder, "I can move a lot faster than you can right now."

The second she was out of the room, Dean threw back the covers on his bed.

"Where do you think you're going?" asked Sam.

"Anywhere but here, little brother."

"Dean, you have to stay!"

"Like hell I do. Sammy, did you see her name tag?"

"No. Why?"

"It said 'A. Helbringer'. What is it with the people in this damn hospital? Uh uh. I'm outta here. C'mon, help me up."

"No. No way. We'd never make it in time, and you heard her—if I'm here when she gets back—" Sam shuddered and headed for the door. "I'll be back . . . uh . . . later."

"SAM! Get back here! I swear if you don't get back here, I'm gonna . . . Damn it, Sam! Do not . . . do not LEAVE me here with that woman!"

The door closed muffling Dean's aggravated pleading. Hurrying down the hall, Sam pushed his fingers in his jeans pocket and pulled out some money. Even though he couldn't help but chuckle at Dean's current predicament, Sam decided that at the very least he owed his brother a milkshake for this one.

THE END


End file.
